How to Archer (12 page)

Neckties should always be handwoven of Thai silk from the wild
Saturniidae
silkworm, and thus frightfully expensive, They should also be
neckties.
You should only wear a
bow tie
if the rest of the clothes on your body are a tuxedo. You should only wear a
string tie
if you invented fried chicken. There is no reason whatsoever to ever wear a
bolo tie.
None, not one.

The width of the lapels on your bespoke suits will determine the width of your neckties. The collars on your custom shirts and—to a somewhat lesser extent—the shape of your face will determine the knot you should use. I personally prefer the full Windsor or the Pratt, for example, but a double Windsor may look better on you. With that big fat pumpkin face of yours.

Belts: The belt loops on your bespoke suits will determine the width of your custom belts, which should be handcrafted from some type of animal hide that you’re embarrassed to even say out loud (a fawn, a newborn calf, a koala bear, etc.).

Cuff links: As with all choices concerning personal style, you should strive for understated elegance. Tiny snow globes are neither understated nor elegant. Tiny silver skulls are neither. Anything related to hunting and/or fishing is neither, And unless you’re going to a black-tie function on an Indian reservation—which I bet they probably don’t even have—avoid cuff links made of turquoise.

Pocket squares: This is the handkerchief that goes in the breast pocket of your suit, and there is a reason it’s called a pocket “square” and not a pocket “frilly shitwad.” That’s because the only fold you should ever use is the square fold—also known as the Presidential—which should extend exactly three-eighths of an inch above, and perfectly parallel to, your breast pocket. Any other fold—the Two-Point, the Dunaway, the Flute, and don’t even get me started on the Puff—is an abomination.

Note: In addition to your pocket square, always keep a separate clean cotton handkerchief folded in the pocket of your trousers. Because at some point in the evening, through no (or some, or total) fault of your own, your date is probably going to start crying.

Jewelry: Sure, pick some up on the way home from your gender-reassignment surgery.

So, you’re out buying shoes, huh? Neat! Seriously, that’s great; I’m sure you’re pretty excited. But before buying them, take just a brief moment to look around: Are you in Italy?

If not,
stop what you’re fucking doing.

Because the only place you should
ever
buy shoes, in the universe and beyond, is Italy. And that’s not even accurate: you shouldn’t even buy shoes. You should have them
made.
By a
cordwainer
. And, if possible, that cordwainer should possess the strong yet supple hands of the irascible yet avuncular Signore Antonio Carbone of Casa di Scarpe Carbone, in Firenze.
⁸⁵

Because Antonio—which I can, after fourteen years, only just now call him—will bring you into his well-appointed shop just off the Via Tornabuoni and talk with you—over an espresso followed by a grappa or two—about what it is, exactly, that you’re looking for in a shoe: Day or evening? Lace-up or slip-on? Do you foresee driving while wearing the shoe? Dancing? Lovemaking?

He will listen intently. And perhaps even nod gravely. He will then beckon for you to follow him to the back of the shop, where you will—in addition to being utterly seduced by the buttery aroma of hand-softened cordovan—be measured for a pair of his sublime footwear.

Each foot will be measured separately, at no fewer than twenty-six points—during which Antonio may even inquire into your dietary habits and/or family medical history. These measurements will be related to Antonio’s positively
ancient
assistant, who will silently enter them into a well-worn ledger, bound in the softest calfskin and containing the foot measurements of kings, dukes, princes, viscounts, captains and/or titans of industry, and also the world’s greatest secret agent.
⁸⁶

Antonio’s assistant will prepare a
copia
of these measurements, which will then be taken into the basement by one of Antonio’s young nephews, who will use them to create wooden lasts, one for each of your feet, using kiln-dried wood from the very heart of an old-growth Claret Ash.

As the nephew slips eagerly downstairs to hand-carve your lasts, you will be shown a dizzying array of exquisite leathers, from which you will be asked to choose your upper. When you are asked, you will do Antonio a great kindness—and yourself an even greater favor—if you defer to the judgment of
il maestro calzolaio:
he knows not only what you want, but also what you need. At this point, more espresso and grappa will be served. And perhaps some biscotti.

You will then be asked to choose the
patina
which will grace the impossibly supple leather of your uppers. Don’t be afraid of making a mistake here: not only will Antonio gently nudge you toward the correct choice, he can also—should you ever decide to—change the patina (via a secret process known only to him) using a proprietary blend of plant-and oil-based dyes.

You will then—after a brief consultation, over more espresso and grappa—be asked to choose a type of sole. The sole you choose will (obviously) depend on when and where you foresee wearing the shoes, but as ever, Antonio will be delighted to assist you in making the correct choice. The style and materials of your bespoke shoes having been carefully selected, the entire staff of Casa di Scarpe Carbone will join you in a toast over a glass of delicate prosecco.

Three to four weeks later, you will receive your shoes—in a handcrafted, velvet-lined box made from the wood of a young Atlas Cedar—along with a handwritten note from Antonio:

Signore Archer, mio caro amico: si prega di godere di questa umile offerta di scarpe.
—
A.

Note: Be prepared to spend a little more for shoes like this.

I am constantly astounded by the fact that some men—men who are sometimes, though not often, nearly as impeccably dressed as
I
am—overlook their personal grooming habits. Because a woman isn’t going to notice that your Sulka tie has a perfect knot (a fact she should instantly recognize) if the nose above that knot looks like a gerbil ran up there and got stuck.

Kept short. And also naturally thick and with a luxuriant sheen. Nothing else will do.

Using handmade, lavender-scented Aleppo (note that I did not say Castile) soap, your valet will bathe you from head to toe, including your hair: the olive and laurel oils in Aleppo soap will lend to your hair’s naturally (if you are me) luxuriant sheen, Don’t worry about your being bathed by your valet seeming homoerotic: If anything, he will be oddly detached and clinical throughout the entire process. Almost as if he finds the very act to be incredibly distasteful.

Bay rum with lime. Only. Ever. I shouldn’t have to say that, Now I’m furious again.

Fingernails and toenails should be kept clipped short, with no protrusion past the tip of their respective digits. Cuticles should be pushed back, frequently yet carefully, and preferably immediately following a hot shower or bath, which will make them more pliable. And if this sounds like a mani-pedi, that’s because it is. And which your valet will perform for you on a weekly basis. And also which, in addition to being important to good overall nail health, is also a great opportunity to sit back, sip a smoky glass of single-malt scotch, and mock your valet. For having to kneel down, on his nearly glass-like kneecaps, and dig out a bunch of your toe jam.

I used to go to this great place down on Twenty-eighth and Seventh. Little hole-in-the-wall run by a Russian émigré and staffed by his two daughters: fantastic hot-towel, straight-razor shaves. But then the two daughters caught pregnant and had to be shipped off to relatives in Michigan, and the few times I went back after that, he was bordering on impolite. Now Woodhouse shaves me.

Straight razor only. The blade is Solingen steel, hollow-ground, French-tipped, and stropped on only the finest leather, The handle is elk antler.
⁸⁷
The brush is (and can only be) silver-tip badger: this is my face we’re talking about. The shave cream is a proprietary blend of Woodhouse’s own creation, the ingredients of which I promised I would not divulge herein.

A note about facial hair:
No.

Unless you are a cop, Latino, or some combination thereof, In which case it is acceptable for you to have a mustache. A Van Dyke beard (often erroneously called a goatee) is acceptable only if you are an evil mastermind. Which, if you are reading this book, I hope you are not.
⁸⁸

I don’t know what to tell you about physical fitness. Because as unfair as it may be, I never, ever, ever work out, yet I look like Michelangelo carved me out of flesh-colored marble.

It’s ridiculous. I can’t even take my shirt off in developing countries (which are usually oppressively hot and humid, and thus the exact sort of place one most wishes to be shirtless) because I am instantly mobbed by tiny, snaggletoothed peasant women trying to wash their raggedy laundry on my glistening, rock-hard abs. Which is pleasurable for about two minutes, and then just becomes annoying. That being said, it is a great way to catch up on village gossip. And as anyone who knows me will tell you, I am an absolutely
incorrigible
gossip, It doesn’t even have to be about a celebrity or even someone I know, I just love to hear it. Scandalous!

Obviously my profession is a fairly physically demanding one: scaling palace walls, fast-roping from helicopters, engaging in hand-to-hand combat with elite Spetsnaz paratroopers, the constant banging of exotic and mysterious women (many of whom are half my age)—these are all pretty strenuous activities. So I guess I get more exercise during the course of a normal business day than say, a stockbroker. Or a dentist. Or a teacher. Or… Well, you know what all the jobs are.

But even that doesn’t explain the fact that if I were a Greek god back in ancient Rome, and Zeus caught Aphrodite feeding me pomegranate seeds, he’d be so jealous he’d turn me into a swan. I mean, all I do is eat rich restaurant food and drink enough alcohol, daily, to kill Ireland, and I
still
look like an underwear model. I guess I just have fantastic genes.

But as for you, I don’t know. Maybe join a gym.